by Jamie Zakian
Dante stared Sasha down as she climbed into the cab, a stupid smirk on his face.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Sasha asked, hardening her glare. “‘Cause I can tell you what I’m looking at. Not a joint.”
“You smoke too much,” Dante said, even though he grabbed the bag of weed and magazine he’d been using as a tray.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are.” Sasha pulled back onto the highway and opened up the motor. “Telling me I smoke too much.”
“I think I’m your father.”
Before the last word could babble out of Dante’s mouth, Sasha had her knife out of its sheath. She swung her arm toward the passenger seat, without looking, stopping the blade only inches from Dante’s neck.
“Now,” Sasha said through clenched teeth. “Why’d you have to go and say a thing like that?”
With two fingers, Dante pushed Sasha’s hand away. “All right, little girl.” Once Sasha sheathed her blade, Dante continued his rambling. “I have a theory about why you’re so cold to me.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I think you’re so excited to be my daughter you don’t know how to show it. So you act out.”
“Ha.” Sasha leaned close to Dante, stretched to reach his face. “Ha!” She settled back into her seat, chuckling. “You’re hilarious, man. You do know I don’t really need you anymore, right?”
“Please.” Dante lit the freshly-rolled joint then passed it to Sasha. “Who would roll all these joints?”
A snicker erupted from Sasha’s mouth. “I can roll and drive.” Hell, she could roll in a pitch-black room with one hand tied behind her back. There really was no reason for Dante to be riding shotgun in her truck. The fact the man sat comfy in his seat should be an extra incentive to toss his ass out of her cab. But he was still hanging around. She was still letting him hang around. It made perfect sense, in her warped mind. She’d always been drawn to toxic elements, felt a need to be punished. Dante was for sure the ultimate punishment, in anybody’s life.
“You were here to be my human shield, but now I’m thinking…my mom probably won’t start shooting unless she sees you.”
“Oh yeah,” Dante said, staring out his window as they drove down an off ramp. His wide shoulders sagged, lower the farther they sped into the swamps of Mississippi. “Where we going?”
Sasha glanced at Dante, finding a deep-seated fear brewing within his stare. The guy must really believe she’d kill him. She’d never taken a life in cold-blood before. A fucker had to seriously piss her off for things to turn bloody. Dante had given her plenty of reasons to justify unloading a clip in his face, but that was in the past. To kill him now seemed petty. He’d have to screw-up in her presence. Then she’d have no problem stopping the fucker’s black heart from beating.
“We’re going to Mexico,” Sasha said, turning onto a dirt road. She tried not to sound sinister. Or maybe she was trying extra hard to sound sinister. Either way, her words came out with a very sinister edge.
“Look, Sasha—”
“What were you gonna do, that night?” Sasha had Dante on the ropes. If the dumb bastard thought these were his final moments, he’d probably tell the truth. “When we were by the cellar, and you lifted that gun, you were gonna shoot me. That’s why my mom jumped in front of me, isn’t it?”
“No. Your mother jumped in front of you because she never learned to trust anybody. After visiting her childhood home, I understand why.” Dante rocked in his seat, like a lion ready to pounce. “I was gonna shoot Ellen in the leg, and knock you out with the butt of my gun. Then we could’ve finished staging the body, and you would’ve been fine. But everything got fucked.”
Dante snatched Sasha’s hand, squeezed tight. “I blame myself for your coma, every day. Hurting you was never my intention. I can’t stand that I took so much from you.”
Sasha yanked her hand from Dante’s grasp. His touch was too safe, comforting, and she couldn’t stomach it. Only Dante could fuck up a person’s ability to hate.
“We’re here.” She parked beside her old pickup dock, staring out at the sun’s low rays as they glistened across the gentle gulf. The dock’s tall lamp was broken in half, its top end tilted and blowing in the breeze. This place looked like it had fallen into a coma as well. Another beautiful spot ruined by her absence, by the people who stole her from this world.
“Get out of the truck,” she grumbled, her glare fixed on the decrepit dock.
“Sasha, you don’t have to do this.”
A huff soared past Sasha’s lips. To pull out her gun and keep up this charade would be cruel, and that was something she’d never been. Sasha turned to face Dante, softening her stare. “We’re going to Mexico.” She pointed out the windshield, to the glimmer of light bobbing in the distance. “That’s our boat. Get out of the truck.”
“Shit,” Dante said through a long exhale. “I thought you were gonna off me, little girl.”
“I’m not like you. I can’t just end people.”
Anger didn’t puff Dante’s cheeks. His lips weren’t pressed tight in offense. He just gazed at Sasha with a hint of a smile. She opened her door. The interior of her semi had become hot, confined, suffocating. An epitome of Hell. The affection that spewed off Dante turned the air to acid, darkened what little light remained of the day. She had to get away from his warmth, ignore it, and never, ever admit to liking it.
***
Two minutes of peace were bestowed upon Sasha while Dante took a leak. It was the best two minutes of her life. She could breathe, smile at the prospect of seeing her mother again, even giggle a bit. Then Dante stepped beside her, and her cheerful vibe burst.
“Who exactly are we meeting?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Why? You been fucking people over internationally?”
Dante shrugged, snickered a bit. “Maybe.”
A boat’s motor revved, waves rushed onto shore, and the now faded letters of Gulf Runner Tours glinted in the low light.
“It’s my uncle Felix,” Sasha said as the boat moored beside the dock. “And he don’t fuck around, so you better show respect.”
“Uncle?”
“Yeah.” Sasha turned to face Dante, holding a smug grin. “From my real father’s side.”
Dante’s jaw clenched, his dark gaze narrowing.
“Don’t say it,” Sasha said, her grin widening. Any mention of Charles Ashby twisted Dante’s knickers into a bunch, which was always entertaining to watch. If the guy didn’t like the fact that another man had raised her, then he shouldn’t have left her ass. “I don’t even like you thinking about him.”
“I know the feeling,” Dante muttered, though not low enough.
The clink of bullets loading into chambers rang out. Men with rifles hurried off the boat, and Sasha stood tall as gun barrels pressed against her chest. None of the men surrounding her looked familiar. Beyond their angry eyes and snarled lips, she didn’t see the wide brim of Felix’s hat.
“Oh, hell no!” A young woman pushed her way through the crowd of armed men, backhanding the tallest one. “We talked about this on the boat, el estúpido.”
Sasha stared at the girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen as she scared off a pack of hardened, rifle-wielding, tattooed cartel members. It was so hard not to get turned on. Sasha told herself, repeatedly, she was looking at a child and standing beside her father while on a mission to find her mother, but the chick’s curves were amazing. Her hips were just the right size for clutching onto. She had thighs that could crush like a vice, and breasts one could bury themselves deep into.
“Sasha. My favorite cousin.”
“Cousin?” Sasha’s lust turned to shock, more so when the chick wrapped her in a tight hug. “Angelina? That can’t be you.”
“You don’t recognize me?”
The chick stepped back, opened her jacket. The long stretch of brown skin, between her tight tank top and even tighter jeans, caught Sasha
’s stare.
“Good lord, you got big,” Sasha said, forcing her gaze to lift from Angelina’s chest.
“I can’t believe your stoned, coma-mind forgot me,” Angelina teased. She zipped her suede jacket, eyeing Sasha over. “My father would’ve flipped to see you awake.”
“Where is Felix?” Sasha glanced at the boat, expecting to see the gleam of a white hat, but only glimpsed a group of young men leaning on their rifles.
“My father passed, almost a year ago. Cancer, a messy fucker.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t know.” A wave of sadness washed over Sasha. There were very few people who’d supported her throughout her life without strings attached, and now there were even fewer.
“Of course you didn’t. You’ve been busy.” Angelina ran her fingers along Sasha’s scarred cheek, a mix of anguish and venom filling her stare. “Pinche maricones.”
Sasha chuckled. The girl was so much like her father. How Sasha hoped nobody ever thought that about her and Dante.
“Who’s running the family now, with Felix gone?”
Angelina turned her stare to Dante for the briefest of seconds. “Who’s your friend?”
That would be one hell of a story to tell. No way Sasha was opening the sperm-donor daddy can of worms.
“That’s my prisoner,” Sasha said, and both Angelina and Dante raised a brow. “Well…” Sasha crossed her arms, glaring at Dante. “He’s more of a hostage.”
A mischievous giggle slipped from Angelina’s mouth. She took Sasha by the arm and headed for the dock. “You’ll fit in just fine in my barrio.” With a wave of her hand, the men hurried forward.
“Tie up that stupid pendejo,” Angelina said, gesturing to Dante.
“Sasha,” Dante called out as men stomped toward him.
Their eyes connected, just as two dudes clutched onto Dante and forced his arms behind his back. Dante’s stare screamed for mercy, and Sasha shrugged.
“So,” Sasha said, pulling Angelina closer. “Please tell me you have some killer buds on that boat.”
“You fucking know it.” Angelina hopped onto the boat, flashing a devious smile. “Let’s sneak down to the cuddy cabin, like the old days.”
Chapter Eighteen
The hours-long ride to Mexico had been the most relaxing moments Sasha had experienced in…what might’ve been ages. Sasha couldn’t remember the last time she’d kicked back and chilled. Angelina had confided in her the hardships of running the cartel, and Sasha actually had solid advice to offer. Plus, the joints never stopped flowing. That young woman, with her nineteen-year-old lungs, could give Sasha a run for her drug money.
By the time Sasha stepped foot off the boat, onto the dusty soil of Mexico, her head felt like a warm, fuzzy, happy balloon. It was perfect. The buzz in her brain masked the onslaught of vendors, who rushed her in a sprint to be the first to sell some poorly weaved straw hats or sloppily painted maracas.
Angelina and her men strolled down the wide, wooden dock. Dante lingered behind them, though not far due to the rope around his neck and hood over his face. The villagers took one look at Angelina, surrounded by rifle-bearing men, and scurried back to their clay houses. The empty sandy roads, with their now pitch-black homes, seemed eerie under the silvery glow of moonlight.
“The people love me here,” Angelina said, rolling her eyes. She stood beside Sasha, watching a woman in a tattered dress drag her teenage son into a small hovel. “I could help them all, and I would, if the fuckers bothered to talk to me.”
A pout took hold of Angelina’s lips, but only for a second and barely big enough for Sasha to see.
“It’s better they fear you.” Sasha looked at Angelina, nodding. “It’s the ones who love you that end up hurting you the most.
“Like your madre?”
“Si,” Sasha said with wide eyes. “Like my madre.”
A slight rumble vibrated the ground. Sasha turned to stare down the only road that led away from the village, squinting from the beams of headlights cutting through a cloud of dust.
“Right on time,” Angelina said. A wave of her hand sent a line of men in front of them, creating a wall of fully-loaded guns.
Angelina grabbed a rifle from the man beside her, then pulled Sasha into a crouch. “You never know, amor. Everything’s a trap in the Yucatan.”
Sasha glanced over her shoulder, straining to find Dante beyond the men who’d walled her in.
“Don’t worry,” Angelina said, loading a bullet into the chamber of her rifle. “Your boyfriend will be fine.”
“Ew.” Sasha darted her stare dead-ahead, cringing. “He’s sort of…family.”
“Oh.” A sly grin spread across Angelina’s face, lighting her deep brown eyes. “The pendejo belongs to your madre, si?”
“Si,” Sasha grumbled, taking another glance behind her.
Angelina nudged Sasha on the arm, winking. “I see. You need the man to shoot in the head in front of your mother, so she’ll stop running and playing silly games.”
“That’s my back-up plan,” Sasha said, her words lost under the rumble of engines. A fleet of black SUVs skidded to a stop, kicking up a puff of sand. Sasha couldn’t see shit. The people around her, however, didn’t hack up a lung or rub their eyes like she did. Everyone around her stood firm, aimed their guns into a haze of dirt and darkness.
The word clear rang out in Spanish from the men in front of Sasha, and Angelina rose to her feet.
“It’s all good, amor. Let’s head to my villa, figure out your coordinates.”
“Is there a place I can get a postcard?” Sasha looked beyond the settling sands at the rustic village.
“¿Qué?”
“Turistas letras.”
“No,” Angelina said. Her nose scrunched as she gestured to the ghostly, shabby town. “I’ll get you some, later. Come.”
A grunt pulled Sasha’s stare. Two men struggled to handle Dante, barely able to contain the man despite his bound hands and veiled sight. She reached out, patted Dante’s shoulder as he was shoved past her. Dante must’ve known it was her touch, because his tight muscles loosened and his legs shuffled onward a bit easier.
Sasha backed toward the awaiting convoy of SUVs while staring at the moonlight shimmering off the gulf. She should’ve called Vinny. It would’ve ruined the whole sentimental postcard bullshit she was trying to pull off, but that didn’t seem so important anymore. Vinny’s rough, strong voice rang in her head. But it was only memories of soft words spoken long ago. She could’ve had the real deal, heard a true I love you before her plans went to shit, like usual.
***
Felix had liked to call his house a villa, but Sasha knew a goddamn mansion when she saw one. Tall double doors opened to the shine of marble floors, priceless statues, and golden trimmed walls. Every fucking thing glimmered, and it only gleamed brighter beyond the foyer.
Although Sasha had never been in one, she imagined this was what a museum would look like. Vases on pedestals, stone busts of men with funny mustaches, shimmering suits of armor were still scattered around the large study. The collection of cute little eggs and fancy lamps in the sitting room had grown since she’d been there over five years ago. All that shit had always made Sasha nervous, except for the paintings that lined the walls in every room. She could stare at the deep colors, follow the hints of brush strokes for hours.
“Do you remember the layout?” Angelina asked from the curved staircase that centered the wide open main room.
“For the most part.” Sasha lingered in front of her favorite painting. The picture of a lone castle twisting toward a starry night sky should send eerie vibes, but the dark tone and warped background only soothed her mind.
“You’re in the spare room, across from mine,” Angelina said, making her way upstairs. “I had your bags put up there. I have some business. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Sasha hurried toward the stairs, the thump of her boots echoing throughout the airy house. “Angel. Where’s my�
��hostage?”
A snicker flowed from Angelina’s mouth as she stared down over the banister. She could tell Sasha was hiding something, and probably knew what. Every crime family in the world must know her life’s story by now, since those fuckers did nothing but gossip.
“Jose,” Angelina called out, and one of the men stationed by the front door hurried forward, clutching his rifle tighter. “Take my cousin to the pendejo.”
Sasha had to force her stare from the locks of Angelina’s black curls, the sway of her luscious hips as she strutted away. Angelina was her cousin, for Christ’s sake. They had no blood ties, but Sasha could still see the child in the young, teenage girl. It was gross. Sasha was fucking gross, because that young, semi-related, teenage girl sparked her pulse to race.
“De esta manera, Ms. Ashby,” the man said, heading for the wide hallway behind the staircase.
She followed the man through the kitchen, which must have undergone a renovation recently. The wood-burning stoves and ice chests that surrounded the room the last time Sasha had visited were replaced with modern, stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen, the hallway got tighter. Sasha had never been in this part of the house, where the walls and floors were made of faded wood and sand littered every corner.
Sasha’s elbow bumped the wall and she jumped to the side, crashing against the opposite wall. Fire seared her chest, burning away any trace of oxygen. She couldn’t do this. It was too much like the corridor she had escaped in the Mancini’s basement. Only now, she was walking toward her cell instead of running away from it.
“I don’t—”
“It’s okay,” the man said. His rushed steps stopped in front of a thick wooden door, a puff of dust kicking up in the narrow hall. He slung his rifle over his shoulder so it rested against his back and unlocked the door. Hinges squealed and echoed down a long set of rickety stairs as the door was pushed open, and Sasha’s knees almost gave out.
“He’s down there.” The man pointed into the dark doorway. “Locked up good.”